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Winter. Incredibly cold for this place, with a bone-chilling, dank wind. That alone should have told you something, but it didn't.
Dr. Lecter. Hannibal. From the very beginning, your own intuition, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, was screaming at you that something was wrong here. Too elegant, too perfect and flawless to be human. But back then, you chalked it up to professional suspicion and paranoia. You were simply too close to Will not to worry about him. Years of work and his gift would leave a mark on anyone. And Jack wasn't in a hurry to interrupt the psychiatrist and profiler's relationship, so you followed his lead.
How wrong you were.
Will was breaking. Slowly, but surely, like brittle porcelain of a cracked cup splitting under the pressure of boiling water. It was only a matter of time before the crack would spread. Hannibal was devouring him like a spider, wrapping its web around a careless, overly trusting butterfly. And the butterfly was melting under the extraordinarily fine attention, oblivious to the poison consuming its own body.
But there was something else about this man. Something that made the hairs on your body stand on end with a dull shudder, and your heart pound a march in your ears. Animal fear. That maddening, primal urge, like a doe feels in the face of a predator hunting her down. You didn't know where this feeling came from. Was it the reddish glint in his eyes, or the sheer relish with which he drank a strange dark liquid at dinner, as if it were the most exquisite wine in the world? He called it wine. But time and again, a metallic note reached your nose.
You stayed silent, perhaps waiting. And Will was melting like a candle. He was changing. Slowly, under the hand of a skilled surgeon, stitching stitch after stitch. First, it was an almost puppy-like tilt of his head, then the speed of his speech, and the almost childish delight with which he told you about him. Hannibal had invited you both to dinner more than once. And each such time was like a performance before a skilled trainer. You must have been changing too, otherwise you wouldn't have allowed this to happen. Unexpected visits, late-night conversations, unobtrusive shared meals. He was playing with you. And all you could do was convulsively grip his hand as you walked together towards your own death.
You had long since ceased to understand what you felt. On one hand, there was maddening anxiety for Will. His nightmares became stronger, more vivid. You started rushing out of the house more often to pick him up somewhere on the road on a dark night after another episode. The way his trembling hands clutched the blanket you wrapped him in, before helping him into the car with the heater on, was forever etched in your mind. After such "fun" nights, you always drove him to your place. It wasn't that you hadn't thought about moving in together; it was just that your home had become a quiet haven for Will. The unobtrusive jingling of the wind chime above your living room window, the dim light, and the warmth of the fireplace relaxed his tense shoulders. And you were just there, grounding him with your presence. In those moments, Will seemed almost like a child, lost without a steady parental hand nearby, nuzzling his wet nose into any passing hand like a cowering puppy hoping for a gentle stroke.
On the other hand, this side of Will evoked in you an almost ecstatic intoxication. Surely a consequence of Hannibal. Those wet eyes, trembling hands, the tremor throughout his body. You stood and watched Graham. And behind you, your neck was tickled by the almost grave-like breath of the man. He touched you, took you by the chin, guiding you, forcing you to watch the profiler's psychosis. You could feel his smile on your skin. That animalistic, feral grin and the hunger in his eyes when a thin trickle of blood flowed from Graham's nose due to exhaustion.
Look.
We made him this way.
You don't know why you didn't stop him. Perhaps for the same reason Will never finished off that psychiatrist. You had grown attached. You were both infected with this poison, without which it was already impossible to live. And the pain was sweet.
Was this love? Hardly. But there was something in this obsession that forced you to call it that.
You slowly dissected your own heart, severing every small artery and vein from the vital organ. You ripped that pulsing flesh from your torn-open chest. Only to place it into his hungry, wolfish maw.
You vaguely remember that day. It must have been a sixth sense, or just a stupid coincidence. It was a full moon, so you thought it wise to head straight to Will's in case another episode hit him. The roads were as empty as usual, and the grey streets were flooded with silvery moonlight. A cool breeze tickled your skin, but there was nothing soothing about it now, only the feeling of an approaching storm.
When you pulled up to Will's house, you noticed that all the dogs were outside. Some were whining, some were curled up in tense little balls and met you with sad looks. Winston was sitting by the front door, desperately scratching at it with his paw. You thought Will just wanted solitude, although it was usually accompanied by hugs from his furry family. Maybe today was different.
You pushed the door open. And froze.
Will was lying on the floor, curled into a desperate fetal position, making quiet sounds like a wounded dog whimpering. You could barely see him in the dark of the living room, but you could see the tousled dark curls and pale skin covered in something black in the moonlight.
Hannibal sat on the sofa, watching the scene with undisguised pleasure on his face. Now his face seemed even more unnatural and waxy than before, his body looked relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. In his hand was his usual glass of wine, which he lazily swirled in time with Graham's strained breathing. His gaze slid over you.
"Our dear friend decided to join the fun?"
Fun. You didn't like that word, not from his lips.
In two strides, you were beside Will, scooping him into your arms and pressing his body to your chest. Will mumbled something incoherent. Only now did you notice how badly he was shaking. His hands desperately clutched your shirt, trying to ground himself and regain a sense of reality. You looked at your palm, which had just touched Graham's neck. Blood. That black "something" was blood on Will's neck. Nausea rose in your throat. You cupped Will's cheek, forcing him to look at you. But his gaze was so cloudy, feverish, as if he didn't even recognize you.
"Shh... shh, I've got you," you mumbled in a trembling voice, burying your face in his tousled hair. You shot an icy glare at Hannibal. "What did you do to him?"
Hannibal took a sip from his glass and set it aside.
"You've always been protective, my little friend, haven't you?" You were starting to feel sick from that smug smirk. "I did nothing that could harm him. I merely allowed his nightmares to cease."
"He's bleeding!"
A low, condescending chuckle reached your ears.
"Foolish human. Even if that were so, I would never let him die."
The man rose from the sofa and, with the leisurely gait of a sated predator, walked to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, admiring the milky light of the moon on the fine dusting of snow.
You didn't even turn around. The only thing that mattered to you was the trembling bundle that Will had become. His skin was pale and cold, and you desperately tried to warm it with the heat of your own body. From time to time, he would open those cloudy eyes the color of a stormy sky, and it brought a tired smile to your face. At least he was still with you.
"Will, don't fall asleep... Come on, stay with me, okay?"
You slid your fingers along his tense neck, where two ragged puncture wounds now stood out, like snake bites. Will made a soft sound when you touched them, and you muttered a brief apology. The skin around the wounds was throbbing and reddened.
"Look at him." You flinched as you felt that cold breath on your neck. Hannibal had approached, and you hadn't even noticed how. Now he was kneeling behind you, and seemed completely unbothered by his position. He covered your hand on Will's neck with his own and pressed it against the wound. Graham let out a quiet pained groan, weakly twitching at the touch. You wanted to pull away, but Hannibal wouldn't allow it.
"Look how beautiful we've made him. So beautiful and broken. Tonight, he came to me himself. I found him by the road, alone and broken, with scraped knees..."
"HE WAS LOOKING FOR ME!" you snapped, lunging forward and breaking free from that cold grip. You pulled Will closer to you; he obediently nestled against your chest, seemingly finally drifting into peaceful sleep.
"Perhaps. But I was the one who found him, little human. His nightmare is over. Look at him."
And you turned your gaze to Will.
Those soft dark hair in perpetual disarray, no matter how many times you tried to comb them with your fingers or a brush. Pale skin with a fine network of veins on his upper eyelids and faint shadows under his eyes. The usual furrow between his brows was now smoothed out – Will was sleeping peacefully and serenely for the first time. And yet, he was different now. It seemed something had changed in the very air of this house. Something you couldn't put into words but felt with every cell of your body.
You slid your palm along that unnaturally cold cheek. Or was it your skin that burned with fire?
"...what did you do to him?"
"Merely granted him peace. I showed him what life could be like if one starts living, rather than merely existing."
Hannibal's hand slid through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. His fingers traced down your neck, pausing for a moment at your pulse point. You didn't even realize you'd held your breath, and let out a soft exhale through your mouth.
"I gave him the same thing I intended to give you. Immortality." His voice sounded soft and tender, like the sweetest honey you'd ever known. You frowned.
"...what are you talking about?"
A smirk slipped into his voice. "Oh, don't play the fool, my dear human. You know what I'm talking about. You know who I am. You've always known. From the very first dinner, I felt your piercing gaze on me. You were just waiting for the puzzle to come together, waiting for the opportunity to tell someone about it without fear of sounding like a mad paranoid."
Could he read minds? Or were you so predictable that it could be read on your face? No, then Will would have noticed much earlier. So there was something else here. Something in your thoughts that had indeed turned out to be true. Terrifying, unreal, but true to the very bone.
"You're not human, Hannibal. Who are you? What are you?"
"Why ask something you already know the answer to, my dear friend?"
Because you desperately wanted to believe your thoughts were merely foolish paranoia, not bitter truth.
"Exactly. You know the truth. You know who I am. And yet you still sit here. Don't you feel it? The bone-chilling fear of a predator. Aren't you afraid?"
"I have nothing to fear. I'm already dead."
You were dead. Inside. Always. You'd simply, at some point, come to terms with the fact that what you felt inside didn't match your shell. At some point, you met Will and made protecting him the main goal of your life. You wanted to be his anchor, just to feel needed. To feel alive.
"Wonderful." His velvet voice was very close now.
And the next moment, pain pierced your throat. Excruciating, flesh-chilling, but intoxicatingly sweet. Something sharp entered your skin with a disgusting tearing sound, and the next instant you felt yourself leaving your own body. Literally. As if that red liquid flowing down the throat of the bloodthirsty monster was taking all your doubts and pain with it. You lazily wrapped one arm around Will's body, and with the other, you buried your fingers in Hannibal's hair, pulling him closer.
"Good little human," he whispered, finally pulling away from your throbbing, painful flesh.
You felt weak and small. Your body slowly sank onto the carpet alongside Will. He looked less pale than before.
Hannibal carefully lifted Will into his arms and laid him on the sofa, placing a pillow under his head. Then he returned to you. The man knelt on one knee, bit his own wrist with an indifferent expression, and pressed the open wound to your lips.
You didn't even need to be forced; your body acted on instinct. You pressed your lips to his cold skin and began greedily consuming the stranger's black blood. It didn't taste metallic or nauseating; on the contrary, it seemed extraordinarily sweet and desirable. You drank his blood like a newborn baby, finally getting its hands on real, hunger-quenching food. Hannibal patiently allowed it. He just sat before you, stroking your trembling, overtaxed head.
The twisting pain in your stomach changed to searing heat as quickly as it had appeared. For such a cold body, Hannibal's blood felt like molten steel. You desperately swallowed the blood, feeling your body gradually fill with a pleasant heaviness.
When Hannibal pulled his wrist from your lips, you let out a quiet, protesting whimper, but the man immediately shushed you softly, wiping a couple of drops of crimson blood from your cheek with his thumb.
"Quiet, mano meilė. Close your eyes," he slid his thumb over your brows and lower, forcing your eyes shut. As if by magic, you felt a leaden heaviness creeping over your body. "Let your body die. When you open your eyes, you will be able to see this world as it truly is."
Hannibal carefully putted his arms under your back and knees and lifted you off the ground. He carried you to Will's bedroom and settled you on the already made bed. After a few minutes, Will's sleepy body joined you, immediately pressing against your chest, wrapping his limbs around you like a blanket. You fell. Completely. For the first time, sleep felt strangely demanding.
And Hannibal settled into the armchair opposite the bed, intending to wait until his two victims had acquired the hearts of predators.